


Blessings

by DaleVonOndine



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: BABIES MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER, Baby, Ceremony, Family, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:14:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22701577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaleVonOndine/pseuds/DaleVonOndine
Summary: The heir to the crown of Fife needs blessings. Fortunately, Angus McFife knows three people who might make good fairy godmothers - dresses optional.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> Just as a disclaimer, I don't believe babies make everything better. This one, however, gives me too many ideas.

The Great Hall was packed with people, spilling out into the main courtyard. Outside and in the back, of course, were ordinary folks – peasants, craftsmen, and merchants too, selling various foods and, for the most forward-thinking, commemorative trinkets – then landowners and lesser nobles crowded between the high stone walls. In the front were all manners of dignitaries, foreign ambassadors, military leaders, and representatives of all the most important families in the kingdom of Fife. And at the very end, with barely a few feet of free space between them and the onlookers, stood the royal family and the priest. It was a picture perfect scene, so ideal that a few painters were frantically trying to get it down on canvas off to the side. The King and Queen of Fife and Lord and Lady McDougall looked on proudly. Between them stood Prince Angus McFife and his delightful wife Iona, both wearing muted greens and dazzling, if somewhat tired, smiles. And in the middle, at the center of attention, a gold- and purple-clad priest bent over a richly adorned cradle. Those who were the closest to them could barely glimpse, safely nested among an extraordinary pile of the finest linen, a very pink-faced and very stunned baby. 

Prince Angus the Second had just turned one, and, as was the custom, he was to be baptised. More precisely, he had been baptised about half an hour ago, his small forehead sprinkled with pure water in which sacred herbs had been steeped. He had endured this affront, along with the chanting of the priest, with amazing stoicism, prompting several visitors to comment on his future qualities as a ruler. In his young life, he had never witnessed so many people. Far from making a fuss, as his own father had once done in such an occasion – the priest had such a bad memory of this day he had preemptively stuffed his ears with cotton – Angus McFife the Second was gazing at everything with eyes as big as plates. And there was a lot to take in, as it was now time for the most important of guests to officially greet him and impart some blessings or wisdom onto his young ears. 

Unbeknownst to the child, a frantic, though discreet, discussion had broken out between his parents and his grandfather. After the princess’s siblings had blessed the heir, should have been the turn of the king’s direct vassals. This had always been the custom, and said vassals were visibly champing at the bit, eager to deliver the most memorable blessing on little Angus. But the child’s father, much to their dismay, was pointing at two warriors who stood respectfully to the side a few feet away. The first few rows could hear some of the words he said, as he had never been one to whisper. “Zargothrax… allies… great honor...” as well as a few curse words for good measure. The princess seemed to take his side, quickly covering her child’s ears with each swearword. Little Angus let out a little laugh, probably believing it to be a strange new game. The King of Fife was losing the argument, and he knew it; so did his vassals, who looked more offended by the minute, but were smart enough not to dispute the royal family’s choice. 

A herald cleared his throat very unceremoniously and invited the first guests to step forward. They did, to a chorus of muffled gasps from the first few rows and of “who’s that?” from the further ones, who couldn’t hear or see very well over the crowd. On the right stood Ser Proletius, Grandmaster of the Knights of Crail, resplendent in his ceremonial tabard, his hand on the pommel of his longsword. On the left, the barbarian whom everyone knew as the Hootsman, arrived only hours ago from the faraway kingdom of Unst, was looking very surly under his wolf pelt. He was one of the few who hadn’t been elbowed or otherwise bumped into. Not only did he carry an aura of danger, but the full pelt that covered his body from head to ankles still noticeably smelled of wolf. It was, however, a very beautiful pelt – silky and silvery, obviously chosen for the occasion – and the only chamberlain who had dared suggest the barbarian change into something else was still recovering from the murderous glare he had received. The two warriors greeted Prince Angus solemnly, having fought side by side with him on several occasions to protect the kingdom. Then both stopped in front of the cradle, where Angus’ son was still staring silently at the word. He managed to focus his big blue eyes on the warriors above him, sneezed, then broke into a blissful smile, which they both answered. 

There was a silence.

Proletius cleared his throat. “I think I’ll go first, then”, he said. He cleared his throat once more. For some reason, the eyes of the future king of Fife were more intimidating than a whole army of trained warriors. He thought long and hard. “Young Prince, I bless you… I bless you with… with great courage on the battlefield.”

“Hey, that was my idea!”

Ser Proletius chose to ignore the Hootsman’s complaint. He bowed to the cradle, then to the child’s parents and grandparents. The barbarian eagerly stepped forward. 

“And I bless you with a full head of hair.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd. It was Ser Proletius’ turn to protest, in a tone more whiny than he would have liked. “What kind of a blessing is that for a child? Really? And besides”, he added, rubbing his head nervously, “a bald head can look very dignified for a ruler, thank you very much.”

Before he turned towards him, the Hootsman had to gently tug his beard free of the baby’s hands. To his credit, little Angus only looked sad for a second or two before reverting back to his slightly puzzled smile. 

“Well, I think I am free to wish for anything that I feel will suit this child, aren’t I? And _I_ say that a full head of hair can do a lot for a man. Besides, he’ll get all the usual blessings, like courage and strength and grace, anyway, so I might as well chose something a bit clever.”

There was more laughter from the crowd – though it died instantly when the barbarian turned around. The Prince of Fife rushed forward to try and calm things down before the argument became too heated. Fortunately, neither of his companions was very resentful, and it was difficult to stay angry under the gaze of his son. Both warriors walked back to their previous position, and Angus breathed a sigh of relief. Suddenly, he became aware of a presence behind him. Before he could turn around, he caught a glimpse of something blue on his right. He managed to hide his surprise as the nobles in the crowd started to whisper. 

“Ralathor? What are you… Wait, when did you come here?”

“I was always here, Angus”, answered the hermit. Not a muscle moved on his face, though he did seem vaguely amused. He gave a nod towards the royal family, then towards Ser Proletius and the Hootsman, and completely ignored the rest of the guests as he stepped to the cradle. The baby sneezed. There was another moment of silence as the Great Hall seemed to hold its collective breath.

“So, what can I bless you with that you won’t already have?”  
The baby beamed at him and laughed, the only sound in the whole room.  
“I guess… Yes, of course. Young Angus, may you always think carefully before you act.”

The herald thought it sounded very underwhelming, especially compared to the previous two blessings. But, as the King’s vassals slowly stepped towards the royal cradle, the hermit nowhere to be seen, he admitted that it was a good idea. Indeed, such a blessing, made by such a mysterious character, would without a doubt carry through many more generations of McFifes.


End file.
